


if only we had time enough

by Xalts



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person, Semi-widow-centric, Time Travel, Zombie Apocalypse, zombies aren't the focus though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:17:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xalts/pseuds/Xalts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amélie lives alone in a post-apocalyptic city. Lena is adrift in time. They meet, impossibly, and something begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. first contact

You’ve lost everything.

Most things were taken from you: your past; your lover; your name. You spite those who did this to you, but there’s more pressing matters.

Because what you lost is also what the rest of the world lost. Humanity, you guess you could call it, if you were being melodramatic. But you consider yourself above drama, which is why you don’t call them ‘zombies’ or ‘infected’ or any of the other dozens of names people gave to the creatures that now roam the abandoned streets.

You thought you were used to being alone, but your past experiences - what you remember, what they didn’t take from you - pale in comparison to the silence, the emptiness, of the vacant city.

They say it spreads through the air, but you can breathe easily. They say it infiltrates your bloodstream, developing slowly, but your heart barely beats anymore. They say it takes you faster if you get agitated or emotional. Feelings no longer bother you.

It’s funny, you think, and then reconsider. It’s not funny, but ironic, that in turning you into a weapon, Talon inadvertently saved your life.

Your footsteps echo on the cracked pavement as you wander your city. Compared to the tight-fitting latex you once adorned your body in, the bundles of rags and heavy cloth you wrap yourself in keeps out the chill much better. There’s two bags on your back - one carrying supplies you might need, the other empty for scavenging - and the strap of your rifle cuts into your shoulder. It’s almost a comfort charm at this point, since you stopped using it to kill.

You don’t consider putting these creatures out of their misery as killing.

As if on cue, two of them lumber out of a nearby doorway. You look at the sign of the department store, at the ragged clothing they wear, and wonder how long they’ve been here. A couple, you think. The woman wears an elegant silk dress, now torn and stained, her throat adorned with sparkling jewels. The man’s tattered suit is stripped away from his bloated body at the neck, showing off the mottled bite mark at his throat.

A part of you, a quiet part that you forgot existed, withdraws in disgust. Even though the infection is airborne, something compels them to bite, to get it into their victims faster, which is why you maintain caution. Keeping your distance, you reach into one of your packs and extract your cuff.

It’s lacking in maintenance; in comparison to the pristine and polished barrel of your rifle, the once-black surface is greyed and tarnished. The chamber for a venom mine is long-empty, since you ran out of suitable supplies to throw together makeshift replacements. Not as though they did much good against these things. But the hook still works, for the most part, so you slip it onto your wrist and aim at a balcony opposite the department store. 

It takes two tries for the rusted metal to clasp into the brick, and several seconds for the winch to kick in and lift you to the platform. Once there, it’s easy to get down on your stomach - you’d rather not waste ammunition, so it’s more accurate this way - and lift the scope to your eye.

Aim. Breathe in. Squeeze the trigger. The man falls, a hole in his forehead. They go down quickest if you destroy the brain; at least the old movies got that part right. He still writhes on the floor for a few seconds before going still, and even then you know better than to get closer. What was that old saying? Cut off the head and the jaws can still bite.

You breathe out and take a second to survey the area. The gunshot is still faintly echoing, a testament to the emptiness of this once-bustling hub. You raise the scope again, aim it at the woman’s head and reach for the trigger…

There’s a  _ whoosh _ , and a flash of movement, blue light blinking past your sightline. Your finger twitches, the shot going wild and embedding itself in the pavement at the woman’s feet. You drop the scope and rush to your feet, scanning the streets in desperation, but the entity, if it was anything, has already gone.

You quickly dispatch of the woman, and then sit back, the barrel of your rifle cooling. There’s something stirring in your chest, something you don’t recognise. Feelings no longer bother you, but if they’re strong enough, you think you can sometimes still experience them. And this feels like that, like an emotion, though you don’t know what exactly it is.

Loneliness, perhaps? A desire for human interaction?

You think of Gérard.

On any other day, in any other situation, you would turn around and walk away right now. But the couple, still together in death, are laid on the street before you, and the hollow sensation in your chest climbs into your throat, so you wrap your rags tighter around your body, open your pack to extract food and water and prepare to stake out the street.

You see the blue flash twice more, and once a vague human-shaped light that disappears before you can even register it as present, before slumber claims you for the night.

* * *

 

You wake with a start and a hand on your shoulder, and blink blearily up at the rounded, boyish face above you.

“Are you okay?” says the newcomer. It takes a few drowsy seconds before the weight of what’s happening sinks in, and then you realise you’re not alone, someone else is here, and then you’re throwing your arms around her in desperation, feeling the warmth and solidity of another real human being.

“Whoa!” she says, obviously not expecting this, but you’ve been alone for so long, and your loneliness was so deep yesterday that it’s all you can do not to let the emotions in, not to break down that final wall that Talon built up within you and that no amount of kicking and screaming and clawing at the brick will dislodge. After a few moments, she brings her arms up and wraps them around your shoulders too, and it’s so warm, so infinitely warm. “Hey, seriously, are you okay?”

You wonder if you can even talk or if your underused throat will betray you, so you just nod, and you’re sure your face must be betraying some of how you feel, so you look down, away from her. She smiles weakly, and you notice immediately how young she is, and how pretty. In contrast to your unkempt drapings, she’s wearing thin pale-blue clothes, almost like hospital pyjamas, and you can see that the cold is getting to her, that goose pimples are raising on her skinny forearms.

“I don’t know how long I’ve got,” she says, breaking you out of your thoughts. “I don’t usually stick around this long… So can you tell me where - or, um, when - this is?”

“When?” you manage to say, hoping that’s enough of a question to grasp your meaning. She smiles sheepishly and shrugs.

“They’re calling it ‘chronal disassociation’. I’m sort of loose from physics right now. No idea where or when I’ll show up. Though, usually I can’t touch anything, so this is…” Her sight wanders to where she’s still touching your shoulder. Her hands are small, her fingernails short and bitten. You wonder how long she’s been like this, how long she’s been like you - without the touch of another.

“I don’t know,” you say. She tilts her head, asking wordlessly for clarification. “I don’t know how long it’s been, or the name of this city. I’m the only one here.”

She makes a small, indiscernible sound, and the look on her face is suddenly so sad and pitying. You want to reach up to her and wipe that look from her face, to make her smile, and you don’t know why. You don’t even know her name.

As if she read your mind, she whispers it in your ear, and then there’s a fuzzy glow of blue light, and she’s gone. Coldness seeps back into your bones as you stare at the spot she once was.

You gather up your supplies and use your grappling hook to lower yourself back to street level. The department store may still have salvageable goods, but you don’t care right now. It’s not far to the place you call ‘home’, barely a ten minute walk, and you’ll remember your way back for another day, but making your way there seems to take so much longer, and maybe it’s because your knees are shaking so badly.

You drop everything at the door but your rifle, because even in this state you give the weapon the respect it deserves, and prop it on the table where it takes pride of place. A night on a cold balcony makes even your threadbare mattress appealing and you fall onto it, dragging more shredded blankets over yourself in lieu of a duvet. 

But sleep doesn’t come, and you know why. You stare up at the mould-ridden ceiling and wonder if you’ll ever see her again, if she’d be as enthusiastic to see you, if she was even real in the first place and you haven’t finally lost what little mind they left you when they erased your past and imbued you with only the desire to kill.

You wonder if you’re really the only one left. You think of Gérard. You think of Gabriel. You think of _her_.

You place your hand on your mouth and trace the shapes your lips make when you whisper “Lena”.


	2. juxtapose

“Tell me about yourself.”

She’s back two days later and roaming the streets by your side. She tries to stay two steps behind you, but her condition has her zipping ahead sometimes, or flashing far into the distance, or disappearing altogether for a few seconds before resuming her serene pace. You’d find it annoying if you weren’t so besotted with the idea of having a companion, of no longer being alone.

“There’s nothing to tell,” you say, quite truthfully. Despite your intentions, you haven’t been back to the department store yet, bad days clouding your head and keeping you chained to your mattress. When you’d set off this morning - or rather, around noon - Lena had appeared in the street before you, looking just as startled as you imagined yourself to be, and despite her protests of “I probably won’t be around long!”, she was still here almost fifteen minutes later.

“Come on,” she says, upbeat and cheery with her lilting, accented voice. “There must be something! You haven’t even told me your name.”

“I don’t have a name,” you say. It’s true, you think. The name you were given as slipshod replacement for the one Talon stole from you no longer counts. Lena makes a little “hmm”-ing sound that makes your cheeks feel warm for some reason. Or warmer, at least. Your skin is always cold to the touch, and no amount of blush can affect that. You raise one of your scarves over your nose, hiding as much as you can, under the guise of protection from the wind.

“What am I supposed to call you, then?” Lena darts forwards involuntarily, materialising two feet in front of you, and stumbles a little, her form flickering slightly. You notice that she’s wearing foam clogs that keep slipping away from her heel, their soft surface untarnished and smooth. You look down at the heavy combat boots you wear, worn-in and scuffed by time. The disparity sits in your stomach. You ignore her question and ask your own.

“When exactly are you from,  _ chérie _ ?” The term of endearment slips from your tongue without intention, and you immediately remember the last time you used it seriously, when you were staring down at Gérard’s body for his final moments, and a shudder passes through you. You don’t know if Lena notices, either your reaction or the word, but she doesn’t comment.

Lena looks up at the sky, one finger on her chin as she thinks. “About 2055, I think? Everything got kind of blurry after this happened to me…”

“And what exactly happened to you?” You’re curious, sure, but you feel like it’s better to keep her talking than to have to talk yourself. As much as you crave intimacy, you’ve spent too long, been conditioned too long, to keep everything to yourself. Even the idea of telling her what you’ve done, the person you used to be, is so unappealing that you’d rather put a bullet in your own head.

Lena beams, her eyes scrunching up from the size of her smile, and the idea of putting a bullet in your head is suddenly less appealing. “I’m a fighter pilot!” she says. You can hear the pride in her voice, and she lifts her arms in a huge gesture of excitement. “The youngest ever drafted! Personally hand-picked to pilot a new prototype!” It’s as if her enthusiasm channels into her condition, zipping her around the street in rapid bursts of blue light so you can only catch the odd word or so as she comes into earshot again: Slipstream; chosen; flying; Overwatch; telepo--

Wait.

_ Overwatch _ ?

A switch has been flipped in your brain, despite how hard you’re trying to flip it back. The conditioning Talon programmed into you  _ screams _ for release, for you to lash out, to eliminate Overwatch, to kill, to kill, to  _ kill her _ \--

Stop. Stop. Breathe. Your hands are a vice grip on your rifle strap, your knuckles even paler than you thought possible. If your heart still beat like a normal human’s, it would be in overdrive right now. She’s noticed, she’s definitely noticed, because she steps towards you, a look of concern on her face, twisting it in ways you wish it didn’t.

You wish you could tell her.

She’s so open with you, so easy to read, because she wears her entire being on her sleeve, but everything about you is closed off, has been for so long. You wouldn’t even know where to start. She’d surely think less of you, you’re sure. Overwatch… Overwatch aren’t opposed to killing, but they stand on the right side of the fight. You stand on the other. Talon stands on the other. She’s your enemy.

She’s your friend.

You want her to be more.

The feeling bubbles in your stomach, rising like bile in your throat, a painful heat that you swallow down to keep it within. You thought feelings like that were impossible now, not just for you but for anyone else in the world as it is now. You haven’t felt anything like that since before… before Gérard…

Lena takes another step forwards, so close you can feel the heat radiating off her, and opens her mouth to say something, but her form flickers and flashes, her voice warping beyond recognisable, and she disappears.

And you’re cold again. Alone again. You sigh deeply. It’s inevitable, you think. She’ll never be around long enough to satisfy your need for companionship, and you’ll never be a good enough person not to drag her down with you. 

Unaccompanied, you make your way into the department store, pointedly ignoring the corpses you have to step over along the way. There’s a strong smell of mould and something else that brings the thought of carrion to mind, trampled into the carpet and left over time to evolve into something else. You pull a scarf over your nose and mouth to mask it a little, rushing through the entrance hall and heading for the food sections. You wish you could take it slower, maintain the caution you’ve trained yourself into against the creatures that could be lurking here.

There’s a noise, like footsteps, slow and unsteady. Your eyes dart towards the source involuntarily, and you’re already reaching for your rifle, hoping you won’t have to use it in such close quarters. You check behind you quickly, then to your left. The noise comes again, to the right. You slowly move towards it, silent as possible against the mushy carpet, and turn sharply around a display of greetings cards, raising the barrel and preparing to shoot at the intruder--

“Wait!”

Ah. You pause. Lower your rifle. Lena keeps her hands raised, her breath coming heavily and a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“You startled me,” you say, your voice monotone and muffled by the scarf. You try not to let it show how much it worries you, how close you came to shooting her.

“ _ You _ startled  _ me _ !” she counters, slowly lowering her hands. She giggles nervously, and it sounds like the sun. “Is this… the same day? The last time I saw you?”

You heft your rifle back onto your shoulder and nod, reaching behind you to extract your empty bag. “You disappeared about twenty minutes ago.”

“Twenty-- It feels like hours. I thought I wouldn’t make it back…”

You glance behind you, trying not to be obvious. She’s looking at the ground, fiddling with the hem of her pyjama top. You’ve never seen her this worried before. Add to that the sweat still on her brow, the way her hair is brushed behind her ear… She’s unraveled and uncertain and yet a guilty part of you thinks she’s even more beautiful for it. You swallow with difficulty and turn away again, kneeling next to a shelf of rice to check for mould. After a few seconds, she crouches next to you and reaches for a packet herself.

“The best-before date says 2065,” she says quietly. “Maybe it hasn’t been that long after all. Maybe it’s only been… five or six years…” She trails off. You know why. Five or six years is still too long to be alone. Still too close to her own time for her to feel safe. She sighs and puts the rice back, standing up sharply.

You realise, once again, how disorienting her condition must be. She felt like hours had passed in just a few minutes… and that was nothing compared to how leaping between here and her own time must feel. She’s in the same boat as you, you think. Not just because you’ve been alone, starved for touch and yet drawn together. But Overwatch is involved too. Overwatch is why Talon made you like this. Overwatch is why she became like that.

You want to open up to her. You want to tell her how close you could be, how, if things had been different, you could have been fighting for the same side. You want to tear down the brick wall left within you, let everything flow free and encompass her, envelop her in your entire being.

You  _ need _ to start small. One brick at a time.

You throw four packets of rice you deem acceptable into your bag and move over to the lentils, making the same checks. Lena uncertainly follows you, hovering two feet behind.

One brick at a time.

“I had a husband,” you say slowly, as if testing the waters. Lena’s eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t interrupt your flow. “Gérard. He was an agent for Overwatch, like you. He was working against Talon.”

You pause. That’s more than you’ve said about yourself to  _ anyone _ , and you barely even came close to actually mentioning yourself. But you can’t put that brick back in the wall. You’ve started this now. So you have to keep going.

“They wanted him dead, but they couldn’t make it happen. So they used me to do the job. They made me kill him.”

“How…” It’s barely more than a whisper, and clearly part of a longer question, but Lena cuts herself off, her face crumpled in concern. She’s hugging herself, almost as if holding herself together. You wonder how anyone could be so empathic. You wonder how anyone could feel anything for you anymore. She visibly gathers herself and manages to voice a full question this time. “What did they do to you?”

You laugh. You don’t mean to, it’s involuntary, and more a rush of what’s happening, of how much you’re telling her, than to do with the story. You don’t want to tell her. You don’t want to taint her sunshine with your deplorable truth.

One brick at a time.

“The absolute worst you can imagine.”

She brings one hand to her mouth, her eyes widening, and you know even with that, you’ve said too much. You can’t bear to face her anymore, so you turn back to the lentils. For a while, the only sounds are her breathing and the soft shuffling of plastic as you handle the packages.

“I want to help you,” she says eventually. At first you think she’s talking about lentils, but a single look at her face, her brow furrowed in determination, lets you know she’s still on your story. “I want to do something that can help you.”

“There’s nothing you can do,  _ chérie _ ,” you say, and the endearment is easier this time, more purposeful. Still, she doesn’t give up, and takes a step towards you, her fists clenched at her sides.

“I want to help you,” she says again, softer this time, and one of those fists unfurls and reaches towards you. Automatically, you reach with your own hand, linking your fingers together, and she’s warm, so warm, like sunlight against your pale skin. She’s closer now, the soft fabric of her pyjamas brushing against your drapings, and she’s on her tiptoes to be the same height as you…

Her eyes are the deepest brown you’ve ever seen, you think, as she cups your cheek in one hand, spreading her heat through the ice of your body, and you feel your heart beat heavily, just once, as she leans up into you, and you’re drifting down to meet her, her breath is hot on your lips and she’s everything, everything in that moment…

There’s a flash of blue light, and she’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your kudos+comments so far, they motivate me to keep going


	3. tête-è-tête

Your eyes are closed, your face pressed against the bundle of clothing you’d stripped off to use as a pillow while you sleep, and your breathing, as always, is slower than it should be, but sleep eludes you. It’s been a long, uneventful day - as days always felt before she crashed into your life - during which you’d returned to the department store to stock up and wasted eight bullets before concluding there was no way to cut through the horde that had formed during your absence. So now, after eating the last of your rice and staring forlornly at the pasta before deciding to ration it, you lay in bed, listening to the ambience of the night and hoping sleep will overrule your nagging hunger.

There’s a hint of light behind your eyelids, a faint sound like a sigh, and you feel the mattress depress behind you, and you recognise her presence by the heat radiating from her being as her skin ever so faintly brushes against yours.

Without opening your eyes, you feel your lips curl into a smile of their own volition, and you wonder when you came to care so much about her.

“Isn’t it a little soon to be in my bed,  _ chérie _ ?” you say quietly, hoping your jovial intent comes through in your monotone, but she barely reacts, instead pressing her face against the bare skin of your shoulder, and you feel her shaking. Something about it strikes you to the core, letting you know instantly that something is  _ wrong _ , and it’s all you can do to roll over and take her into your arms, letting her inherent warmth envelop your being.

“Nothing feels right anymore,” she whispers urgently, her voice heavy with unshed tears and her lips feathering over your skin so gently you can physically feel goosepimples raising, and you file the sensation away into the folder in your brain labelled ‘Lena’. “Everything moves too fast, or too slow, and it’s so far away, so  _ detached _ … the only thing that feels real is  _ you _ .”

And she sounds so small in that moment, so sad and scared, her entire body shuddering with the effort of holding it within herself. You’ve long wondered if you still had a heart, but now you’re sure, because you just felt it break, ever so slightly, and the only comfort you can offer Lena is to tighten your arms around her, to press her body up against yours, combining the two of you into a single unified shape, so closely interlinked that an outsider wouldn’t be able to tell where one woman starts and another ends. You feel her fingers weave tightly into the fabric of your tank top, and the combined heat of the humid night air and of her blazing presence is almost suffocating, but truthfully, you think this would be a more than acceptable way to die.

For a long time, she’s silent and still against you, taking breaths that start fast and ragged but slowly fall into a rhythm, and grounding herself in the sensations of your bodies pressed together and your top against her fingertips. You feel the feather-light flutter of her eyelashes against your shoulder as she rapidly blinks, once again holding back the tears you thought imminent. She’s so strong, you think. Even when she’s on the verge of breaking down, she won’t let anything show. You wonder what could have happened in her life to make her that way. You think of the dazzling smile she’s always put on before, and wonder how much of that was forced. Forced for your sake. Your throat tightens at the thought. More than anything, you wish she could show her full self to you.

She clears her own throat, one finger tracing a wavy line along your clavicle as she builds her voice back to strength, and you wait for her words patiently, but nothing could have prepared you for what she says.

“Is your name Amélie?” she asks, and the moment the last syllable of the name falls from her lips, the air freezes in your throat, something within your brain clicking into place. It sounds familiar, so incredibly familiar and striking and  _ certain _ , and you know it’s the name, the name that Talon stole from you all those years ago, the name you’ve unconsciously been searching for all this time, and she’s handed it to you as if it were nothing. Involuntarily, you make a choked squeaking noise as you struggle to speak around the unidentifiable feeling that’s clawing its way up your throat, pregnant seconds passing before the feeling fades and your voice finds itself long enough for you to shakily cough out a “Maybe?”

Her finger continues to trace shapes down your collar, contact with her skin sending electricity bone-deep into your body. “I asked about you,” she admits quietly, avoiding eye contact for some reason, and you think she must be embarrassed, that she’s been thinking of you so much. “You told me your husband’s name, so I asked some of the people at Overwatch about him. They said… They said his wife was missing and presumed dead. And that her name was Amélie. I thought that might be you… I mean, I thought that name would suit you…”

If anything, the heat in the room grows more intense, and you realise she’s blushing. Something about it is so endearing that the weight of her words is almost lost before your brain catches up.

Amélie. Your name is Amélie, and Overwatch doesn’t know what you’ve done. For one wild second, you’re intensely pleased - that Talon got away with it, that Overwatch would never even see you coming, that you could  _ destroy _ \-- No. You exhale shakily. That’s not you. That’s not… It’s not Amélie.

You focus on the weight of Lena’s body by your side, on the sear of her skin against yours, on the way her body shifts as she breathes, on the softness of her cheek pressed against your shoulder, on her hand, the fingertips that stop making shapes at the base of your neck and slide downwards to touch your forearm, your wrist, the palm of your hand, to settle between your own fingers and grip tightly, solidly, holding you in the here and now. She’s everything, eternity and infinity. You think you could live in the sensation of being with her.

Moving cautiously, as if not to startle her, you bring your other arm up to cup her cheek, slowly rubbing your thumb against her cheekbone. Her eyes finally meet yours, and you can see the tears still lurking along her waterline, threatening to spill over at any moment, and the way she raises her eyebrows almost apologetically. She smiles in the same way, and you hate it. You don’t want her to apologise for feeling anything, especially when you feel like you should apologise for feeling nothing. 

You want to erase that apologetic smile, and you do it with your lips. It’s almost automatic, but you want this so much, want to show her how much you want  _ her _ . You hear her gasp so softly, feel her breath against your mouth, and it’s intoxicating, and then she’s pressing back against you, one of her hands against the small of your back and the other in your hair and she’s everything, she’s everything, she’s  _ everything _ .

She pulls away when she runs out of air, her breathing heavy and her expression blissful. She smiles at you, so genuinely, so unlike the smiles she’s given you before. You’re so glad you met her. But it’s almost as if her condition knows how to ruin the mood, because there’s just a split second of realisation in her eyes before her form within your arms turns to blue light, and then she’s gone, just the memory of her lips on yours remaining.

Your arms feel empty without Lena. You curl on your side, shifting into the warmth of the mattress where she was before, and card your own fingers through your hair, remembering the dexterity of her hand as it lightly brushed your scalp. Only now that she’s gone do you realise the words you should have said to her, and how the moment has passed too quickly. But more moments will come, you think. You’ll be able to tell her, fully, just how you feel.

Slumber claims you quickly after that, leaving you with dreams of her velvet lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to my beta ann for being super gay and loving these ladies


	4. take me by the hand, the heart

You know Lena is trying to tell you something. Over time, you’ve learned to read her body; the way she bites her bottom lip with slightly bucked teeth; the dance her fingers perform along the hem of her shirt; the short, sharp sighs that come from her nose, sighs of her frustration. Even so, you’ve left her to it - when she’s ready to tell you, she will, and you don’t want to pressure her.

Presently, those nervous fingers are scraping along your scalp, pulling the tangles of your long dark hair into sections and gently smoothing out the twists and knots left by your neglect. She’d insisted on plaiting it, saying her own was too short and she missed the feeling of long hair, and who were you to deny her a simple pleasure like this? You’re sure by now that if she asked with that smile and those eyes, you wouldn’t hesitate to kill for her, no matter how much you hated the thought of it. You’re utterly entranced by her presence, and shamelessly so. It’s as if your heart has been waiting for the chance to love like this.

As she pulls the first weave tight, she finds her voice. “There’s a scientist at Overwatch,” she says, slower than she usually speaks. She’s picking her words carefully, you realise, which means this is extra serious. “His name is Winston. He’s… Well, he’s a genius. And he thinks he can help me.”

You catch her meaning immediately. It’s like your ribs have caved in, tightening around your chest. You feel the muscles of your face go slack. She doesn’t seem to notice, and clarifies her words, and in doing so confirms what you’d dreaded.

“He thinks he can find a way to control my time-jumping.”

“So we wouldn’t see each other anymore,” you say, with a finality to your tone. She doesn’t reply, so you know you’ve hit the nail on the head. The tips of your fingers feel colder than usual. The plait, half-finished, remains in her grasp, though she’s stopped weaving it together. You’ve always been a woman of few words, but now, so many are bubbling up in your throat, so much that you want to say and yet can’t, because the moment hangs like glass between you and any movement will shatter it forever.

She exhales behind you, out of your sight, and you wonder what her face looks like right now, what kind of expression she’s making. You want nothing more than to turn around and hold her, to feel her in your arms, but you can’t move. She seems to realise this, and clears her throat quietly.

“I don’t want that either,” she says. “But… I don’t know. This is… big news. I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

And more than even your urge to hold her comes the hatred that anything could make her sound this small, this upset, and that it’s your fault, that it’s because of you that she’s torn between this tarnished existence and the prospect of her old life left. Your thoughts are dark clouds that swell around your head, blocking your sight, blocking your  _ sun _ . But you force it back inside, deep down, and out of sight. For Lena’s sake. With shaking hands, you pick up each brick she knocked out of your wall and dutifully slot them back into place.

It’s better this way.

“You should go back,” you say. There’s a tiny gasp, and her fingers fall from your hair, the plait unweaving and falling lifeless around your shoulders. You turn where you sit, to face her. It’s like you imagined and dreaded - her face is on the verge of falling completely, her bottom lip trembling. Carefully, you reach out and still it with your thumb, feeling her delicate skin against your own. “You belong back there. In the past. This isn’t a place for you.”

“But it’s a place for you?” she counters, desperately, looking for justification to stay where there is none.

“It’s a place for no one. But it’s where I am, and not where you deserve to be.” There’s tears building up in her eyes now, threatening to spill over, and you move your thumb to wipe those away. You wish every problem could be wiped away so easily.

“You don’t deserve this either.” Despite your best efforts, a single tear evades you, tumbling down her cheek. You kiss it away. Her fingers find your shoulder, your chest, your throat, your head as she clings to you and presses her face against yours, the tears flowing freely now.

The thought comes to you with sudden clarity, a realisation of what could have been realised long ago. You’ve never asked anything of her, but she’s always been here for you - from the moment she appeared like a ghost in the street, to the days between visits that you waited with bated breath; the time spent huddled on the edges of buildings and traversing abandoned malls, her warmth always two steps away and reassuring in its presence; kisses against the mattress and skin contact, heat permeating your being as she pressed against you. She’s done so much, but you could never bring yourself to think of the one thing you have to ask her for.

“Change this.”

She pulls away from you sharply, meeting your gaze, her eyes wide with wonder. She blinks rapidly, her form flashing blue and wavering as the same realisation passes through her.

“Change this,” you say again. Your mouth is dry, your throat beginning to ache from the strain of speaking so much at once. You’ve always been a woman of few words, but words are important, you’ve come to know, and you hope these words will be strength enough for her. “Go back to your time and tell them about the infection. These scientists, at Overwatch, they’ll be able to stop it. They’ll be able to stop this whole thing from happening.”

She flashes blue again, her shoulders shaking. “I can stop this?” she whispers, as if awed by the potential in those words. You nod, and try to smile reassuringly. You have no idea if that’s the expression you achieve, but her own lips stretch into a smile in response, before rapidly dropping.

“What’ll happen to you, though?” she asks. You don’t have an answer for that. Instead, you take her hand in yours, feeling the slightness of her fingers, the fire in her veins, and kiss her knuckles, gently, one by one. She swallows hard, her throat tight, and you meet her eyes once more.

“Can you do this for me, Lena?” you say, and barely the last syllable has slipped out before she’s thrown herself at you, her mouth attacking your face as fast as she can, peppering it with kisses; velour presses against your cheek, your nose, your eyelids, against your earlobe, into the crook of your neck, and you hold her close to you, imagining that her body heat is your own, that the chill that encompasses your being no longer exists, because you stand beside the sun itself.

“I’ll do it,” she whispers, her lips against yours, like she’s speaking the words right into your being. “I’ll go back and tell them, and I’ll save you. Because I don’t want to lose you forever.”

“You won’t,” you reply. It’s the last thing you ever say to her.

When she’s flickered out of existence, the blue light fading behind your eyelids, you let your arms drop to your sides. You wonder if it was a lie. You, this you, will never see her again, but if she does everything right, maybe she can save a different you.

Of course she can. You have faith in Lena. You feel the warmth fading from your skin, the memory of her touch on your skin, the pressure she left on your lips, and the cold brick that once again surrounds your heart.

They said the infection spreads through the air. These days, it’s getting harder to breathe. They said it infiltrates your bloodstream, developing slowly, but since your heart began to beat anew, that development surged ahead. They said it takes you faster if you get agitated or emotional. That’s how you know it’s definitely too late for you. Because more than anything, she made you feel.

You used to think Talon inadvertently saved your life. But perhaps this was crueller - to show you what you could have had, and then to tear it away.

You close your eyes and wait.


	5. epilogue: there was a time

You’ve been here far longer than you care to think about. Long enough that you’re intimately familiar with this small square of floorspace, dotted only by the water fountain on one wall and a barred window on the other. Long enough to learn the routine - your body has learned to feel hunger only when food will be delivered, and to dread the times when you’re extracted and taken to a different small room where, in order to distract from what happens in there, you’ve counted exactly how many tiles are on the ceiling, and which ones have odd stains at the edges, because it’s easier to focus on that than to let go of the final vestiges of your mind. 

So when that routine is interrupted, you’re acutely aware of it. The thin shaft of sunlight that filters through your window, catching dust in its rays, has long-passed the end of your mattress; at first, you’re worried that you’ve been here even longer, and that the seasons are changing, but the gnawing hunger growing in your stomach tells you that you’ve been forgotten. You wonder if something’s happening outside, or if this is part of your training now. You drink some water, hoping that’ll quell your hunger for now, and curl up on the lumpy mattress, waiting for something, anything.

Something beeps.

You open your eyes and sit up. There it is again, a muffled beeping noise, somewhere close by. Uncomfortably close. You scan the room quickly when you realise the beeping is getting faster, and roll over the mattress, pulling it on top of yourself, suddenly discerning that the beeping was your only warning before a small explosive detonates and your cell door flies inwards.

When the debris settles and your ears have stopped ringing, you throw the mattress aside and stare at the figure in the ruined doorway. She’s short, dressed in brown and a startling shade of bright orange, hands on her hips and a bulky-looking machine, lit with bright blue, strapped to her torso.

“Amélie Lacroix!” she exclaims, puffing out her chest. You glare at her - that name no longer applies to you, Talon already gave you a new one, but she remains undeterred. “I’m Lena Oxton, Overwatch agent, and we’re here to rescue you!”

Your fingers itch for your rifle. If only they let you have weapons while you were still in here. Even the very mention of Overwatch sets fire through your veins, feeding your bloodlust, but this woman stands fearlessly before you and holds out one hand, as if she expects you to take it.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Lena says. “You can come back, Amélie. You’ll be safe with us.”

“What would you know, you silly girl,” you spit, your lip curling dangerously, and she sighs as if she’d been expecting this. What you didn’t expect, though, was the warm smile she gives you, her eyes wrinkling with the magnitude of it.

“I made a promise,” she says, and kneels down in front of you, her hand extended. “I promised I’d save you, and change the future for both of us.”

That doesn’t make any sense, but you look at your smile, and at her outstretched hand, steady and waiting, and something inside you clicks. You think of ceiling tiles and gunshots. You think of Gérard.

You think of the sun.

You take her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all your support during the writing of this fic!


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